


The Absolute Bastard

by brothergrimace1



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothergrimace1/pseuds/brothergrimace1
Summary: Written for Roentgen's 'Hide in Plain Sight' alternate-continuity for his long-running 'Legion of Lawndale Heroes' (Daria/Legion of Super-Heroes) crossover, this 'Legion-lite' fic showcases the events surrounding a couple of OC's and canon characters as they work to help innocent metahumans escape from the brutality of the 'Trump Regime'.





	The Absolute Bastard

 

_The Absolute Bastard_

_A Legion of Lawndale Heroes ‘Mini’, by Brother Grimace_

**_Legion of Lawndale Heroes created by James Bowman_ **

 

 

NOTE: This was written for Roentgen’s _‘Alternate LLH – Hide In Plain Sight’_ thread.

 

 

_San Ysidro Port of Entry - San Diego, California_

 

The stocky man with heavy-lidded eyes stepped out from the armored guard post (to the eyes of most, it may as well have been called a ‘bunker’), and let his eyes run over the old, yet well-kept pickup truck before he looked up to see the driver - a slender young man in a Navy service uniform.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I see your I.D. and international travel permit, please?”

“Of course.”

The stocky man took the card and the sheet of paper, and noticed the golden oak leaf on the young man’s collar as he ran his card through a hand-held scanner. “So - heading down to Taco Town for a bit of fun?”

  
Lieutenant Commander Russell Dalbert gave the man in the desert camo body armor a slight nod, and noticed the badge he wore - that of a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent, just like the other four agents that he could see.

  
“Spending the weekend down there. I know a place that makes great chicken fajitas - little mom-and-pop joint that keeps it simple. ”

  
The agent wrinkled his nose a bit at the young man’s accent. _Military brat - I recognize the accent, even though he went to Annapolis and tried to dampen it down. A little bit of West Virginia in there, too… Trying to show that you’re better than your white trash parents, hmn? At least one of them?_

  
“Must be, if you’re blowing fifty grand on the permit.”

  
“Gift from my grandpa on my daddy’s side. He’s trying to get me to come into the business, instead of bouncing around the world on deployments like my ma did.”

“Nice gift.”

_Sorry, redneck. Just because a cat has kittens in the oven, that doesn’t make ‘em biscuits - don’t matter if the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s the daddy, either._

  
The stocky agent’s expression went neutral; the exorbitant price placed on permits for simple travel across the borders to both Mexico and Canada was one of the best ideas that the President and his Administration had for controlling the attempted exodus by many citizens. Like several other laws put into place by the Administration (and the services affected by them, like health care at all but the most basic levels), the important thing was that citizens had ‘access’ to international travel - if they could afford the fees, if they weren’t on one of ‘the lists’...

  
…and the person running the computers and making the decisions wasn’t in a sour mood that day. More than a few people (even those who were in good with the right people) had found themselves denied for nothing more than simple pettiness.

  
Such was life in the current United States. Ascension of the lowest common denominator and normalization of the basest negativity within - a process that happened far, far too quickly for many to believe (and which several nations overseas watched with open, unmitigated glee), and which far, far too many citizens welcomed with open arms, guided by the persona of the President and all those in the inner circles of power.

  
The stocky agent looked the young man over, and somehow managed to mask his disdain. _Lucky pretty-boy - bastard probably hasn’t done a honest day’s real work in his life. One of those pampered fucks who had everything given to him by Mommy and Daddy; probably bought him a thousand-dollar hooker for his first shot of ass, a six-figure car to take her off somewhere and blow his load in her - and he drives this now to impress women on how he isn’t caught up by his family money._

_Never did like those rich fucks. That’s why I’m glad ‘ Big Daddy’ won the election - he knows how to put people like that in their place._

  
“Found it my second year at the Academy. Trip with a few friends. I make a trip down every few months so I won’t forget what it’s like.”

  
“If you like that sort of thing.”

  
The stocky agent made a motion with his hand, and several agents entered Dalbert’s line of sight.

  
“I keep it real. Hot dogs, steak and burgers, apple pie, ‘freedom fries’ - _American food_.”

  
He looked at Dalbert’s permit once again, as if he were expecting to see something out of order, and for it to jump up and grab his attention.

  
“I’d have thought an officer wouldn’t flop around with that kind - of food… or those people, either.”

  
Dalbert watched the stocky agent run his card again - and looked it over closely (as he did with the travel permit) before he glanced over to observe the other agents at work.  
Two of them moved around his car with a pair of German Shepard Dogs (both dogs could easily have passed for small horses in size) as they sniffed for contraband, and two others used the scanner probes (from the cart-mounted portable bio-scanner they pulled over from the guard post) to check out his 2001 Ford pickup truck.

  
“What’s with the beater, sir? Thought they paid you squids better than that - especially if you have rank, and rich daddies.”

“They do - but this belonged to my daddy. Took my ma on their first date in it - he said he got the idea from an old Madonna video. On my first day at the Academy, I made him promise me that the day I graduated and got my commission, he’d give me this truck.”

“Yeah, but still-”

“My daddy died three days after I turned eighteen. He left me the truck in his will - but I didn’t do so much as sit in this driver’s seat until I did it wearing this uniform.”

A loud, constant beeping erupted off to the right of Dalbert; he turned to see both of the agents with the scanner now pointing their sidearms directly at him.

_“He’s positive.”_

In an instant, a twin-mounted, remote-controlled set of mini-guns rose up from the roof of the guard post/bunker to swung around in the direction of his truck, and Dalbert noticed the crisp, intense gleam of green as the laser designators from several high-powered rifles were pointed at him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dalbert saw a flurry of movement and heard shrieks of fear & screams mushroom outward as people in the vehicles behind him ran for their lives, their vehicles and possessions abandoned - and then, his attention focused fully on the stocky agent as the man took three steps back, pulled his rifle up and pointed it directly at Dalbert’s chest.

“Sir. _Step out of your vehicle._ Do it _now_. _If you disobey any of my commands you will be shot._”

A trio of men in heavy tactical armor came out of the bunker and locked what appeared to be a thick, heavy, studded leather collar around his neck, and followed up by putting a pair of clear, yellow-hued bands with visible circuitry and bar coding around his wrists (and a duplicate pair around his ankles) before snapping heavy gauntlets and chains around him.

“That’ll keep you from using any of your freaky powers against anyone, _you freaky fucking mutie_.”

The stocky agent grasped the back of Dalbert’s neck; the young officer suddenly saw stars, and tasted blood as his face connected hard against the still-open door of his pickup.

“I had an accident, boys.” The agent’s voice was admirably level to the point of being robotic. “My foot slipped. Sorry about that accident - _sir_. You should have worn a lower rank when you stole that uniform - you might have gotten through if you’d made yourself a butterbar.”

Dalbert staggered slightly and almost fell as the guard who assaulted him pushed him forward. “Take this fucking mutie trash and put him into the holding pen. We’ll let him sit in there until the morning, when the _Collectors_ come through on their run.”

A second voice spoke from behind Dalbert. “You think he’s one of _them_?”

“There’s plenty of Legion ‘simps’ with powers out there trying to help other muties and metas get out of the country - and this one’s going to talk. This is a real permit, and a real I.D. - so yeah, he’s going to tell the _Collectors_ everything, like how and where he got the money and the connections to get the real fucking thing.”

A third voice piped in. “We’d better be lucky that he didn’t try to vault the _Wall_. Took them three days to get the scanners back on line and clean it after those two ‘spitters’ covered it with germ bombs. I’m not doing those two-hour shifts walking the Wall in MOPP gear if I don’t have to.”

The stocky agent spoke up again. “Just get this one down in the-”

Sudden pain and nothingness enveloped Dalbert.

 

*****

 

“Lieutenant Commander Dalbert. Welcome back to the land of the conscious.”

_Someone decided to be thoughtful,_ Dalbert mused, as he opened his eyes to soft lighting and an equally soft bed - _I guess they must have learned that guys like me don’t stay in the holding pen._

“No, sir. This is the VIP quarters for any ICE visitors of rank who need a few hours rest, or a place to indulge in whatever suits their needs. Don’t worry, sir - the linens are changed daily, and the mattress is renewed on a quarterly basis. I also brought you a fresh uniform - the one you wore was ruined by the blood.”

He lifted his head to see a petite, curvy and entirely desirable Latina in her late twenties, who wore the uniform of a U.S. Army Sergeant First Class.

“Sergeant First Class Arabella Monet. _Vectors Control \- Section One._ The D.C. contingent. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You’re _Special Powers Command_ …”

“Yes, sir. I was sent in from Washington to take care of the situation. They decided that if they sent an officer, it might rattle a few too many trees out here - and with the way they treated you without authenticating your papers, they certainly weren’t letting any Navy or Marines come out and settle the issue.”

Monet handed Dalbert a glass of water as he sat up from his bed - wincing slightly as a noticeable line of pain appeared in his side. “General Armalin wanted to come. He’s severely annoyed - and the President ordered him in person to _not_ leave Washington.”

Dalbert mouthed the word ‘wow’ before he drained half the glass. “He’s giving _Armalin_ orders _face-to-face_?”

“Yes, sir - I thought you’d have heard. POTUS signed an executive order a week ago putting all metahuman officers over 0-4 rank under _Bakeson’s_ direct command - including direct control of the _Collector_ teams - so, if he needs real muscle, it’s only a phone call away. He’s the new _Chairman of the Joint Chiefs_ , if you haven’t heard.”

She frowned. “He wants Armalin around as his personal hitter, if there’s any real problems.. truth be told, he wants him around him for _protection_. POTUS is terrified that the Legionnaires might try to get him… _especially since Griffin moved to Georgetown_.”

“That’s not their style.” Dalbert remembered his work from being in the very first class to take _Opposition Force Studies_ \- the USAES class dedicated to studying the Legion, and quite useful for the Administration’s ongoing hunt for them. “ _They don’t kill._ It was in their Constitution, and they followed that to the letter.”

The Latina shrugged. “Doesn’t matter - that’s the story POTUS is running with. Besides, he wants to keep Armalin close - _especially_ since he refused to sign the loyalty pledge. POTUS doesn’t trust him totally, but thinks he’s too valuable to even try to bump off.”

Dalbert suddenly frowned. “Should you be _telling_ me stuff like this? Should you be even be _saying_ stuff like this out loud - especially here?”

Monet laughed. “Trust me, sir - you’re cleared for it. If it wasn’t for your CO letting the President know how you must have been in perfect control and _didn’t_ turn San Diego and Tijuana into a new addition to the Badlands once they started beating on you, I wouldn’t be here now. They really want you to accept that posting to the  Vectors Control unit in L.A., sir.”

_So, they weren’t kidding about putting more force out here on the West Coast. A VecCon unit and its support in California itself - that’ll stir up the masses - and if POTUS wants it in L.A., that means he’s looking to provoke them…_

“They really like your sense of self-control.”

“You make it sound as if I’m already in.”

“From what I understand, they’ve already got you set up to go detached duty the moment you sign the papers - and as for your mother, well, she let several Congress-critters know that contributions would be skimpy if her baby boy was banged up too badly and he didn’t get a chance for payback. She wants you to call as soon as possible, by the way.”

“Right. So, the asshats here just decided that I was a rogue meta _and ignored the fact that my papers were legit…_ ”

“I think that the part where you told the head agent about going down south every couple of months set him off, and he just decided to let the rest work itself into an excuse to beat you down. The accent set him off, too. Doesn’t think too much of your family tree, either.”

Dalbert’s eyebrows rose; he winced again as the pain poked his side.

“You’ll still need to take a few days in bed to heal up fully. I had to work on you for hours to get you to ‘mostly healed’, so your own body could take over. My power also kicks up your healing threefold.”

“Thank you. They didn’t bring in a doctor?”

“No - and the ICE brass have been peeing their pants ever since they got a call from POTUS himself about it. He likes doing stuff like that - nobody thinks that he’d do something like that, so it freaks them out more when he does it.”

She tapped on an elongated box on a table near the door. “I also repaired your wand. Those bastards found and cracked it - and the clarifier you carried it in is still missing. Seems that they planned for you to end up found hanging dead in your cell, claim you committed suicide, hang onto your wand as a trophy - some jerk-off probably sold your clarifier already on the other side of the border. An ounce of Salazarium pulls down eighty K, and more on the black market. We know that in Mexico, _Embajador de sombra_ has a standing offer for pure Salazarium - double the going rate, no questions asked.”

“Oh. Rather unsporting of them to take mine, then.”

Monet’s tone slipped into the arctic zone.“The big one with the sloping forehead and the eyes, who started off the dance? Seems he likes collecting trophies. You wouldn’t be his first.”

She cracked her knuckles. “He’s going to have visitors waiting for him at home tonight.”

The Navy officer looked her over. “You’re a telepath.”

“Yes, sir, but just a _Class One_. I’m more of a precognitive… ever seen that horrible Nicolas Cage film - the one where he can see up to two minutes into the future, and he can re-wind it to work through all the possible futures he might have because of his choices?”

“You can do that, Sergeant?”

“Out to seven minutes. I’m not a _Hellhound_ , or a White Sword like you, sir, but I’ve got a few tricks and I can hold my own.”

Dalbert glanced at her as she referenced his highest metahuman certification, which placed him in the top one percent of all trained metahumans in the American government and armed forces - in his case, among those with mystic powers. “All that, and you can heal people.”

“Impressive for someone who spent a few years _paddling around a Georgia swamp_ \- isn’t it, sir?”

It was only then that Dalbert noticed the ring she wore on her right hand - a class ring, similar to his own (which, it occurred to him, had disappeared), but with a slight difference in color…

_Great. She’s one of them. The fucking Phalanx._

“You’re out of _Waycross_.” He didn’t mean to do so, but said the last word with a mixture of disdain cut with abject annoyance.

  
“Yes, sir. _Class of ‘07_.”

  
She was referring to the _United States Special Studies Center_ \- the U.S. Government’s metahuman training center for non-comissioned and warrant officers, located outside the tiny city of Waycross, Georgia, near the Okefenokee Swamp - and for decades, proud rivals against their fellow cadets and future officers.

  
“I don’t take offense, either, sir. I’ve annoyed a great many _‘Axeheads’_ in my day.”

The proud, yet knowing way Monet smiled brought back memories of intermurals against SSC cadets - _and that annoying damned chant of theirs that they broke into whenever they won at anything…_

“They sent me to remind you to stay out of trouble, sir - and give you backup if you need it. _‘If you’re going to chase after women, you should keep your eyes on the domestic stock here at home.’_ Their words, sir - not mine.”

“That, and to heal me from a beating?”

“Yes, sir. That - and to watch how you deal with the ongoing situation.”

Dalbert caught on instantly. “Sergeant - how long was I out?”

“Three days, sir. They worked you over thoroughly - and we didn’t learn about what happened here until two days ago, because the team of _Collectors_ coming here was diverted to Portland. They got a confirmed report of _Tiffany Blum-Deckler_ in town…”

“ _Good Lord._ Tell me they had the brains to let her walk out on her own and get her once she cleared the city limits.”

As Monet shook her head in a matter that informed him completely on how things had gone. Dalbert remembered the sleek, Asian beauty chosen to attend USAES (the government’s training academy, now shut down by the direct orders - and paranoid fears - of the President) during his final year, as part of a trade that saw Julia Carlyle traded over to the Legion… and how Blum-Deckler had carved out a reputation at ‘the Axe’ that invoked respect and fear from no small number of cadets there.

_I’ll never forget how she wrapped that chain of hers around Vargas the second after they declared the Outlast open, pulled him through the stage and into the ground, and hung him like a tree ornament off the flagpole of the Admin Building. They specifically told her not to hurt anyone at the beginning, too._

_I wonder if they’ll ever find any of their bodies - and if she left those Collectors a few hundred feet underground, put them in a mountainside, or stuck them in the foundation of a building somewhere… if she’s in a mood to make a statement, she might have stuck them inside some freshly-cut logs. When it came to using her posers like that, the word for her is ‘creative’._

“They didn’t have any other teams free, so Bakeson sent me. He remembers you, and his contact out here let him know what was going on. That’s why he sent me instead of _Jericho_. She would have scorched the place the instant she saw how badly they worked you over.”

Dalbert remembered the video footage he saw of Tori Jericho in action - the girl who was now a living-energy form, called herself _‘Wildfire’_ , and was the last Legionnaire conformed to have joined before the Administration dropped the hammer on them.

She had been located hiding in the _Alaska Interior_ , and overwhelming firepower was deployed. Ten full teams of _Collectors_ , three reinforced battalions of elite infantry troops, four tank battalions & a full combat aviation brigade were dispatched from Fort Gregory, several hundred miles away with a simple set of orders:

He thanked God that Jericho simply surrendered herself after the effects of the cataclysm she’d unleashed upon fellow human beings finally sank in on her - and idly wondered _if Mount Russell would ever stop burning…_

“I see. The agents weren’t fired.”

“No, sir. It was decided that they should be… _kept on_. That way, their families would receive death benefits, and not be shamed in the eyes of the public.”

She gave him a knowing look. _“They will be allowed to die as… ‘heroes’.”_

 

*****

The eight ICE agents all rose to their feet as Dalbert (in his fresh uniform) and Monet entered the conference room; another man, in his fifties, with a crown of perfectly-groomed silver hair and dressed in a nice, yet unimpressive suit, rose from the table and moved to approach the two military personnel.

“Lieutenant Commander Dalbert. I’m Webster Wayne - regional director of the _METER_ workshop for Southern California. I’ve already spoken to your commanding officer and your mother - and now, I want to personally apologize to you for the unprofessional and profoundly illegal actions of my men.”

Wayne extended his hand as he approached; Dalbert, already having come to a decision as to how he would deal with the situation, simply nodded and ignored the gesture.

“Thank you, Director. Sit down, everyone.”

Monet suppressed a smile as color drained from Wayne’s face; on the other side of the room, one of the agents Dalbert recognized as a dog handler was having difficulty trying not to wet himself as he took a seat.

_He must be the newbie. Everyone else is ready to cash in their chips, but he’s scared stiff._

“So - this is a _METER Special Engagement Unit_.”

Neither he or Monet bothered to sit as the _METER_ agents all returned to their seats.

“Director - I’ve read up on the training that all of these boys get to deal with powered folks. A full year’s training, the same as the boys who go through Coronado or Fort Benning, right?”

He felt a slight ache in his side, but kept on. “These boys are considered _Tier One_ units - so explain why you had them out playing toll booth operators.”

Wayne spoke up. “Lieutenant Commander, we had received a credible report - which we then confirmed - that several unregistered metahumans were going to be trying to escape through this port of entry into Mexico. It was followed up by a second report that informed us that at least one Legionnaire would be joining the rogues, as well as a sympathizer - with powers and possible political influence - who could get them over the border. Unfortunately, my men were a little too overeager and discounted your paperwork, thinking that it was excellent forgeries. We’ve heard that the Russians have been having fun at our expense, hacking into computers and placing information that could be used by traitors to create fake paperwork and get wanted metahumans or even Legionnaires over the border and out of our reach”

“I see. Did you find any metahumans, Legionnaires or any form of contraband in my truck, in my personal belongings or on my person when you searched them all thoroughly with metahuman scanners, trained security dogs and by hand?”

The dog handler’s bladder fully cut loose at the tranquil tone of Dalbert’s voice; with a look of absolute contempt, the officer brought forth his wand (which he had received from Monet before the meeting) and pointed it at the young agent.

_“Emundabit.”_

The overpowering stench of urine immediately disappeared from the room; the dog handler’s uniform suddenly seemed to be slightly different than those of his fellow officers, as if it were as clean as the day it was purchased.

“That was nothing, gentlemen. I’m a mystical adept, and my specialty is manipulation of matter and energy on the molecular level - or what we in the trade refer to as _‘Transfiguration’_. The non-magic types do the same thing, but their method is called _'Transmutation'_. Just trivia for later.”

  
Dalbert turned his attention for a moment to the stocky agent as he continued to address the man’s boss; as he did so, he calmly suppressed his desire to turn the man into a _Broad Breasted White_ turkey, and drop him just outside the fence of a Butterball farm in North Carolina.

  
“Now - you were going to tell me why a _Metahuman Extraction, Transport and Extreme Response_ unit was playing at checking IDs, passports and permits. Seems a bit below their learning curve and pay grade, one might think.”

  
The stocky agent spoke up. “We were told that the metas and their simps were going to come through today, so _METER_ teams were on _all_ of the posts into Mexico - even the pedestrian entrances - from Cali all the way to the Gulf. Full deployment of all _METER_ teams and support personnel. _You_ were the only metahuman to come into any border station that day-”

“I understand. Now, where in your briefing did you discuss _ignoring procedure and refusing to confirm the legitimacy of personal and government-issue documents presented by an active-duty officer in the United States Navy, assaulting said officer…_ or the criminal physical abuse and neglect of any metahuman prisoners that you may have captured, including said active-duty officer?”

Dalbert noticed that Wayne allowed the sticky agent to keep talking - mostly because it seemed he was content to let the man dig his own grave, and gave him cover to separate his agency from the actions of those men.

.“Sir, it’s SOP that we use extreme force to pacify any metahumans that we engage in order to keep them from using their powers against us-”

“Which brings us right back to the ignoring your standing orders and your oaths… all so you boys could all indulge yourselves in some legalized busting of heads.”

Monet noticed that Dalbert’s accent smoothed out and became more studied, more genteel with his tranquil state of anger (which her low-level empathy allowed her to pick up on).

“Gentlemen - I’m not going to raise my hand against you. You say that you were only doing your jobs. I can respect that.”

The officer walked along the table, and stopped just before Wayne’s table. “So _keep them here_, Director. _Doing. That. Job._ ”

The stocky agent sat up straight and the others began muttering as the depth of Dalbert’s words hit home, and only the dog handler seemed to relax. “I’ll be passing on that recommendation to the head of your agency, Director. All of these agents are to be immediately removed from _METER_ duties and placed here on border guard duty. _Permanently_.”

Dalbert turned to the dog handler who had soiled himself. “Except _you_. You’re the only one who’s actually shown any remorse for what you did. Get out of here. _You’re_ going to start back from Day One, as a fresh nugget with no rank… _and remember that you owe me_.”

The dog handler disappeared from the room, and Dalbert turned back to the other agents who had brutalized him.

“As for the rest of you… I’ll make a point of coming through this port of entry _at least_ three or four times a month - and when I do, I want all of you to be here. I don’t care whether it’s day or night, blizzard or sinner’s scorching sneak peek - if I drive through, _I expect to see all of your faces - and I will sit in my truck until each and every single one of you shows up to give me the proper inspection that you should have given me in the first place._ This includes calling your supervisors - or their supervisors, or the Director of ICE himself, I don’t care - and having him contact whoever you need to to confirm my identity and that my papers to cross the border and return are valid.”

Dalbert’s eyes projected numbing coldness with each touch of his gaze. “Don’t plan on any long vacations, gentlemen. No wedding trips, no out-of-state ball games - I wouldn’t plan on leaving the city, if I were you. Not for a long, long time to come. Best look into some permanent housing in the area - and having your loved ones send you the things that you’ll need to settle in.”

To their credit, not a single one of the men asked a stupid question about the consequences of them not showing up; in the America under the current President, his mercurial nature and the way the people who he had empowered also chose to wield it against those whop wronged or even annoyed them, even the asking of such questions often had unpleasant consequences.

“Oh - and one more thing. I noticed that you have a lovely cafeteria here. I also noticed that _my class ring_ and the watch I wore are missing.”

Director Wayne’s head snapped around to look at the now-demoted agents.

“I am going to go down to that cafeteria, and have myself a good breakfast. Depending on the quality of the coffee and the waffles, I will probably take thirty to forty-five minutes to finish my meal - at which time I will go out to my truck. At that time, I expect to find my class ring and my watch in my truck - my truck to be in the same condition as it was when I arrived, with all of my belongings present and undamaged - and then, continue on with my trip. Should I find that even one of these expectations has not come to pass…”

Dalbert smiled. “Well, if I told you what would happen… _it wouldn’t be a surprise._ ”

SFC Monet moved away from the wall as Dalbert turned to her. “Sergeant - was there anything you wished to add to the discussion?”

“No, sir.” She gave him a smile of pure admiration. “I think that the people in Washington will find your handling of the situation - _unexpectedly refreshing_.”

She saluted. “Request permission to return to D.C., Lieutenant Commander.”

Dalbert returned the salute. “Permission granted, Sergeant."

Monet nodded, and turned to leave.

“Well, then,” Dalbert spoke again, as he turned back to Wayne. “I’ll be in the cafeteria. I trust this meal will be with the compliments of your agency.”

 

*****

 

_Tijuana International Airport (General Abelardo L. Rodríguez International Airport) - Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico_

 

 

Ten hours later, Dalbert was escorted into an empty aircraft hangar by a handsome Latino about his age in a wheelchair (which he refused to allow _anyone_ to push).

“We have secured the entire airport, _jefe_ ,” Tomas Villicana said, maintaining pace with Dalbert’s quick step as he spoke (he knew that Villicana would take it as offense if he walked any slower than usual). “This will go as planned.”

Dalbert reminded himself that he was talking to one of the most powerful men in the Western Hemisphere. With the shifting of geopolitical winds in the U.S., the current POTUS had made the drug issue a military problem, and the loss of power and funds that made the drug lords so fearsome (as well as the deaths of over half of those lords) created a vacuum that allowed several metahumans, already well-placed throughout the Americas below the border, to operate in a ‘twilight’ state of open secrecy and take on real political power from behind the scenes.

Tomas (he had preferred ‘ _Thomas_ ’ at one time, but now wore his name as a proud badge of honor after the things he had heard during the last U.S. Presidential campaign, and from the Administration that now ruled the nation) was now possessed of wealth and political influence that put him at the level of a duke from the Victorian era… and even with the assassination attempt that cost him the use of his legs, Tomas still possessed the strength, skill and will to kill a man with his bare hands.

The man now known as _Embajador de sombra_ (the _‘Shadow Ambassador’_ ) smiled at Dalbert’s apparent discomfort - it was from some lingering aches that Monet’s healing hadn’t quite taken care of, although Villicana attributed it to fear.

“There is no reason to be afraid. Yes, there are informers for your _Great Yellow Gringo_ everywhere and he does try to place his spies in my city - but for our operations today, they have been distracted or _silenced_ … and our people have gone over this area four times.”

Dalbert stopped - but Villicana locked eyes with him.

“The last time was five minutes ago - just as you were parking that… _enchanting_ vehicle of yours. Do women truly feel that you are of more inner worth because you choose to drive it, rather than one more appropriate to your place in the world?”

The officer looked down at the one-time libertine-turned-crime lord, but chose to remain businesslike.

“Right. Where are they?”

A female voice spoke up. “Right here.”

The two men turned to see a tall, slender redhead in light-colored clothing, flanked by four men similar clothing and armed with AK-style rifles as they approached from opposite ends of the _Gulfstream V_ jet off to one side of the cavernous hangar.

The redhead held her AK steady as she pointed it at Dalbert’s chest. “You sure he’s clean, Villicana?”

“I haven’t broken my side of the deal with your supervisors yet, Lane. Your people owe me money and supplies.”

Penny Lane safed and slung her rifle as she fixed her eyes on Dalbert. “You’re a day late.”

“My excuse is that I was beaten two steps off from death by some _METER_ 'Black-and-Tans' at the border when I set off their scanners.” He rubbed at a stitch in his side. “It took them a while to bring someone in to heal me. She put me up only to eighty, eighty-five percent. I’m still a bit sore.”

“Sorry to hear about that.”

“I heard that they were waiting to bust me up, because they heard that a sympathizer was going through - and they had _METER_ squads at every single crossing station on or near the _Wall_.”

The way Dalbert stepped forward as he spoke made Penny’s security men close ranks before her.

“Before you get pissy, _Dogbert_ \- let’s finish things up.”

Penny rummaged through her pockets as Dalbert opened the worn attache case he carried; he set it down on the hangar floor, and Penny pulled a ring from the cargo pocket from her left leg - which she tossed into the case.

A full thirty seconds passed before they heard any sounds - and a minute later, after the sounds of footsteps on thin metal began to echo from the case, the head of Fran Lawrence appeared.

_“Welcome to Mexico, Senorita Lawrence.”_

Penny rolled her eyes and Dalbert smiled as Villicana - who usually spoke with unaccented English so perfect that he could have taken a job on any U.S. television news network - let the full, throaty flavor of his native language’s accent flow through his words. _“I am Tomas Villicana, and I will be host to you and your guests for the course of your stay in my country.”_

The sudden flush in Fran’s cheeks as Tomas took her hand and helped her from the case made Patty shake her head. _Yeah, I heard that she has a thing for hot Latin types…_

“Thank you, Mister Villicana-”

_“Tomas, please.”_ He didn’t even bother to take in the sight of Fran’s slim legs as she stepped from the edge of the case, and moved aside so that another woman’s head appeared from the case. _“How many did you bring with you?”_

“Three hundred and fifty four,” she told him; even Dalbert’s eyes went wide at the number. “We’ve been moving people for the past two months - and with my powers, we could keep them hidden and fed without raising suspicions.”

_“Ah, yes. You are the Legionnaire they call_ ‘Micron’. _When was the last time you had a dinner befitting one of your stature - metaphorically speaking, I might add?”_

_Grandpa always said that wolves lose their teeth, but not their nature,_ Dalbert allowed, as the hangar began to fill up with people. _Appears the same thing happens if their legs get screwed up - as soon as they heal up a bit, they still go hunting the best they can._

“Miss Lawrence-”

“Oh, yes - Agent Lane.” Fran turned at the exasperated tone and placed the ring Penny dropped into the case - _a Legion flight ring_ , identical to the one she wore - into her hand. “Jane’s ring. How is she?”

“Doing well in Argentina - along with the majority of the escapees from home who didn’t want to go to Australia or Scotland,” Penny told her. “She’s working with Senator Fernandez - they’re coordinating the entire resettlement effort. She said to say hello.”

The tall woman saw even more people emerge from the case. “How exactly did you do that?”

  
The petite Legionnaire shrugged. “I learned a while back how to miniaturize not only _people_ or _objects_ , but _areas_ \- and I can keep them like that until I decide to return them to full size.”

  
“Okay, then - but how did you manage to not set off the scanners at the border? One of my guys has visual powers, and they scrambled Apaches to fly barrier patrol along the wall two months back, when he went within a half-mile of it?”

Fran smiled as she held up an inhaler. “One shot from this knocks my powers down for six hours. As long as I don’t forget to take a sniff, I could do cartwheels in a room full of scanners and they wouldn’t go off.”

Tomas looked at the inhaler with an interested look. _“Ever since your President revealed the Bowman Acts and metahumans, the supply of ‘flush’ has all but vanished. It is almost as rare as Salazarium-”_

  
“Thank you for the reminder.” Fran drew a worn, purple-and-yellow Crown Royal bag from the right pocket of the jacket she wore, and Dalbert heard the sound of metal as she handed it to Tomas.

  
“Our people heard that you might want these instead of cash or diamonds.”

Tomas opened the bag, and saw that it held at least twenty off-yellow metal ingots the size of dominoes - one-ounce slips of Salazarium. _“Ahh… ‘ Witchblock’. Gracias. It is a pleasure to do business with your people.”_

He handed the bag off to a swarthy, solid man in jungle camos that each of the persons in Tomas’ immediate vicinity would have sworn wasn’t there a moment before. _“Take care of this.”_

The man in camos seemed to dissipate into nothingness as he turned away, and Tomas focused back on Fran. _“Ah, yes. As I was saying earlier - how did you manage to keep so many people in that case?”_

  
Fran couldn’t help but to smile. “Did you hear about that weirdness several months back, when about ten square blocks on the South Side of Chicago suddenly _disappeared_ one night, as if an alien ship just scooped it up - and a week after that, _a certain gold-plated hotel in Vegas_ just vanished the same way?”

  
Dalbert whistled in newfound appreciation, Penny looked at Fran with a wellspring of sudden respect (as did all of her men), and Villicana gazed at her with undisguised affection.

“That was _you -?_” Penny couldn’t disguise her awe. “You’re _‘the judgment on America by God for voting the President in?’_ You’ve got all that _in that case_?”

“Chicago was a field test, to make certain that I could do it.” Fran looked adorable as she idly toed a spot on the floor. “Vegas - well…”

_“You needed a place for everyone to stay, you decided to let them live in comfort - and you wanted to hit directly at the putrid old gringo in his ego and wallet.”_ Villicana smiled in admiration. _“ Inspired, my lady. Truly inspired.”_

“That’s where your payment came from, too. POTUS keeps stashes of cash and other goodies in all of his substitute White Houses - and in his upper floors in that hotel, he had his mother lode of precious metals. He’s helped to finance the effort for a long time to come.”

_“You… are an amazing woman.”_

Penny looked on, exasperated. “Okay - before you climb out of that wheelchair on the woman, Villicana, perhaps one of you can tell us how you’ll be getting all of these people out of this airport without drawing a lot of notice?”

“That was already discussed and planned for.”

Fran reached into her pocket, and drew out a small case that resembled a flash-drive carrier. “Just under half of the people we brought out want to stay in Mexico. I’ve got a few things that your people can use to move them out of here to the locations you’ve arranged.”

She unzipped the case as she walked over to the far side of the hangar and placed something tiny on the ground, about ten feet apart; moments later, fifteen sleeper buses appeared in the hangar.

“Hybrid buses - they take natural gas or electricity. That was the deal, right, Mister Villicana - er, Tomas?”

Fran walked back over to the others. “As for the rest - we’ll fly them out.”

Penny smirked - but that expression faltered as she looked back at the buses. “What did you do - _steal Air Force One?_”

“I could _never_ get close enough.”

Everyone present could see the look of professional annoyance and disappointment on Fran’s face. “I had to settle for a pair of _British Airways_ Airbus A380s. From what I hear, they enjoyed reaming the government for what happened - and played the press conference where their ambassador insulted the President live on _Sky News_. He had to stand there and take it - otherwise, the U.K. airlines were going to cancel all flights to the U.S. and shut down all their U.S. operations.”

“I love how _now_ , everyone’s finally decided to get together and stand up against him.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Penny’s voice. “What about our payment?”

“Well, the airplanes are for the Argentines. As for you and your people…”

Fran took another case out; moments later, Penny smiled as she looked over the five HUMMER H2 sport utility trucks that the Legionnaire had returned to full size - four black, and one, placed slightly off to one side, dust-brown.

“Nice. The good models.”

Villicana nodded in agreement, and noted that the dust-brown model had several visible modifications that he’d spoken about weeks ago to his American contacts. _“Indeed, Senorita Lawrence. Very nice.”_

He wheeled himself over to the vehicle, and ran his fingers across the front door on the driver’s side. _"Yes... ‘And I even like the color’.”_

His gaze met Fran’s; she made a motion to him as if she were taking off a hat. _“The keys are in the ignition, Your Highness.”_

She turned back to Penny. “Agent Lane - there’s also new orders for you in your vehicle, as well as funding for your operations - and three ‘paint-by-numbers’ kits for Jane. They said to give them to you, and that you’d know what it meant.”

It seemed to everyone present as if a massive weight had suddenly lifted from Penny’s shoulders. “It means _a lot_. Thank you.”

She turned to Villicana. “You’ve got drivers?”

The man in the wheelchair smiled. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. You and your people are free to depart - and thank you.”

“Anyone who’s working to take down that asshat and make his life miserable until then is okay in my book.” Penny have him a half-wave. “You, too, Dalbert. I didn’t think this was the kind of thing you’d do - risking your life like this, for people you don’t even know. You don’t resemble the description I’ve heard of you.”

“Oh, I’m an asshole.” Dalbert smiled at Lane; he was more than aware of the way people in the military and the government in general felt about him.“I’m also a _patriot_. My country comes first - _and what they’ve made of America isn’t my country_. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make things right, for as long as I can - and if that means they all think I’m an absolute bastard… _so be it_.”

Penny nodded, and glanced over to Fran. “So, you’ll be staying in town for a few days, while he-”

She nodded in Dalbert’s direction. “-Keeps his cover up, hmn? How _will_ you pass the time?”

The _CIA Special Activities Division_ officer let her gaze bounce from Fran to Villicana and back again, and a stream of mirthful cackles flowed from Penny as she got into the passenger side of the closest H2; her men had already taken their places in the vehicles.

“Good work, all of you. _The Resistance_ thanks you for everything that you’re doing for the cause.”

Fran waved. “Thanks, Agent Lane.”

Penny held up her right hand, as if she were reciting the _Pledge of Allegiance_. _“ Resist. Peace.”_

 

**END**

 

20 June 2017


End file.
